


Webs and Knots of Scarlet

by abysmal_seraph (absymal_seraph)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blood, Gore, M/M, Post-Movie, Pre-Slash, Psychopaths In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absymal_seraph/pseuds/abysmal_seraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames gives Arthur a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Webs and Knots of Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic written years ago for an inception_kink prompt. Just decided today to pull it out, gussy it up to my current writing standards, and post it here. If you read the original version on the comm, this has a few changes and added bits.
> 
> The title is from 'Red is the Color of Blood' by Conrad Aiken, quite possibly my favorite poem. I really love the constant tonal shifts between absolutely mundane and completely psychopathic.
> 
> Eames is very fucked up in this. Making/reading Eames and Arthur as rather monstrous has always been one of my favorite things about the Inception fandom. Also, I can have some really fucked up ideas of what can be considered romantic.
> 
> My only regret is that I couldn't post this on Valentine's Day. It would have been perfect.

Eames glances at his watch for the fourth time in almost as many minutes. Arthur was supposed to meet him ten minutes ago. There is a chance, of course, that Arthur won't come, that Eames has somehow mistaken the sudden shift in Arthur's gaze as interest, but Eames doesn't misread people often. 

No, it is far more likely that Arthur is simply held up or has been scared off by Eames' extremely vague invitation to meet in an abandoned warehouse. While Eames is hoping for the former, the latter might be better for them both, all things considered.

The well-worn, paint-splattered tank and jeans Eames is wearing do little to protect him from the chill occupying the building, especially now that they're damp and sticking to him with new stains. They were best for the task at hand, though, and Arthur has never seen him like this: muscles and tattoos exposed, no jacket and button up shirt to pare down and mask the sheer bulk of him. He looks like an uncultured thug and maybe just seeing him like this will disgust Arthur enough that he’ll stop giving Eames those calculating, animal looks. Eames equally hopes and worries that will be the case.

There's a noise outside, small and easily missed, but Eames has been on edge all night. He hears the soft tread of footsteps moving around the building. Checking the area, no doubt. A moment later, the door opens and the night seeps in to add more darkness to the barely lit room.

“Sorry I'm late,” he hears Arthur say from the doorway. Eames can’t quite make him out yet, but he can imagine Arthur with his gun in hand and eyes narrowed as they cast around the shadows. Arthur has beautiful instincts, after all, and Eames has--mostly--unconsciously made this meeting look as suspect as possible. 

He can’t help but smile grimly at his attempts at self-sabotage.

“Some sort of crisis downtown,” Arthur continues, and Eames nods in sympathy. It’s been a week of unwelcome surprises. “Mind telling me what this is abou...”

And that would be the moment Arthur spots the body, Eames guesses. He's already put away the tools. It didn't seem proper to leave them about.

Eames licks his lips and leaves his seat. He's nervous, justifiably so. This is, after all, a moment that will change everything.

"I have a present for you."

He doesn't reach out for Arthur. His hands are full and a sticky mess, and Arthur is wearing the lovely heather gray ensemble Eames is so fond of. And Eames was right about the gun, currently pointed at the floor, but Arthur still has ample time to shoot Eames if he so chooses.

Arthur looks from the heart Eames cups like something treasured, to the body splayed and grotesque on the floor, then finally at Eames’ face so rapidly the progression could have easily gone unnoticed. The swing of his arm closing the door behind him is far easier to track. 

“Mr. Eames.”

“Arthur,” Eames returns. His expression is solemn, watchful, because as much as he has done this to show his love, Arthur should have left the moment he saw the body.

“That's Harold Davis.”

Eames' nod is slow. Yes, that is--was--Harold Davis: fifty-two, jack of all trades, ruthlessly efficient, prone to torturing and killing those he decided knew too much. The man who had trained Arthur and had been quietly hunting him down for years. The man who had, three days earlier, tried to pay Eames to hand Arthur over. And what else was Eames to do, hm, save kill Davis and offer pieces of him like tributes?

"And what about me? Would you torture me?" Arthur asks. His eyes never leave Eames', gaze never falls upon the organ in Eames's hands. "Kill me?"

They both know he means in reality and inside dreams only when necessity does not will it. Arthur is too practical to reject an easy death by Eames' hand in favor of an excruciating one by angry projections. It’s part of what Eames loves about him, that practicality. That ruthless understanding of necessity.

"Never." Eames' tone is flat, but his eyes speak volumes. He thinks Arthur sees that even in this low light.

"And the others?"

"What they did was wrong," Eames says because he knows that's what Arthur is worried about, "but I wouldn't hurt them for it. Or for anything else short of intentionally trying to harm us."

Arthur nods, accepts this as fact. In truth, he knows very little about Eames, but it still feels like more than anyone has a right to. As he slips the gun back into its holster, Arthur’s gaze shifts, finally focusing on Eames’ appearance. His eyes trace the slope of broad shoulders, ghost over the lines and curves of tattoos. The sharp hunger in that gaze remains despite the blood staining Eames' clothes.

It falters a little as Arthur looks at the heart. He takes it carefully and doesn't react when blood still manages to get on his cuffs. He cradles it, delicate, like its the most precious gift he’s ever been given. 

“I always wanted this,” Arthur says, gaze fixed on his hands. Eames' stomach rolls, and he doesn't bother faking a smile. Arthur always knows when he's lying. 

Arthur shakes his head, smiles. “I thought he was the father I never had, but he was just smarter than the real thing.” His hands open, and the heart hits the ground with a wet thud. 

“I'd rather have yours,” he says with a tap to Eames' chest before sliding his hands over Eames’ shoulders to tug him closer.


End file.
